Glory of the Night
by I Was NotA Robot
Summary: She's a thief with an inferiority complex, and he's a handsome billionaire without a clue. These things seem to go together. Lucaya AU
1. Glory

**This is my first shot at doing an AU, so read with caution.**

 **It's a subtle Batman and Catwoman kind of thing, where Maya Hart is a skilled thief and Lucas Friar is a handsome young billionaire. I have no idea whether or not it will be a multi-chaptered fic. I have a few ideas for storylines, but I'm still considering.**

* * *

 _MAYA HART_

.

.

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For a moment, she glanced down at the noisy city of lights from her perch on the balcony. She could feel the dark iron bar cutting in the skin of her clenched hands, and her feet wobbled precariously. Hopping down and onto the deck, she paused to catch her breath.

The room was blanketed in inky shadows as dark as the star-speckled sky above.

Tentatively, she tapped the glass door with a fingernail, then rapped on it with a silent fist. It wasn't very thick, and wobbled oh-so-slightly. Perfect. Busting through wouldn't be worth it – and there was no lock to pick. It must open from the inside, she reasoned. Quickly, she reached into her satchel and drew out a black instrument that glinted wickedly in her hand.

The tool worked its magic, gliding through the glass like a knife through butter. Seconds after carving a circular hole, she tapped the piece out and watched as it tumbled safely to the carpeted floor on the other side. The thick rug muffled any sound it would had made if it had collided with wood floors.

Slipping a hand through the opening, she wrapped her fingers around the knob on the other side, and pulled downward.

 _Click._

The doors opened, and she stepped into the room.

She could make out the outline of several armchairs, a desk, and small couch accompanied with footstools, but not much more than that. Knowing Lucas Friar by reputation, she reasoned that all of this was probably designer stuff, and each individual piece could be sold online for a few thousands. That didn't matter tonight.

Her eyes were fixed on another prize; a safe, two by three feet, guarded by five inches of solid glass and three inches of solid steel after that, all sealed imperviously by a padlock.

She'd been scouting it for weeks – whatever was in this vault had to be worth at least a million. Friar had never been too tight with his money, as it didn't matter anyway. The young billionaire could buy a small country and then some, and still have green piles of freshly minted dollar bills to roll around in.

* * *

Sliding a spray bottle from her leather bag, she shook the object and yanked a finger around the lever, sending a stream of fine mist into the room.

The darkness was soon highlighted with red lasers, revealed by the contents in the bottle. They snapped throughout the entire room, a hidden challenge for any unwelcome intruder. Whoever designed this was clearly no amateur, as the spaces and angles would be almost impossible to get through without being sliced in half.

Not for her, though.

Duck down, twist here. Bend this way, lean that way. Spin clockwise, step counterclockwise. Years of gymnastics and yoga had paid off – not to mention her experience with high-tech heists.

Expertly maneuvering through the trap, she made her way towards the safe stored in the wall. Swinging her leg up and over the last line of lasers and catapulting onto the rug, she breathed a sigh of relief.

That was one of the best-quality traps she'd ever beaten, an all-time record for sure. And even better than this satisfaction was the prize that was sure to follow. Leaping to her feet, she grasped the clinking chains and tugged.

No use.

Pulling out a small walkie-talkie, she held it up to her mouth and sighed.

"Farkle, do you read me?"

* * *

No response but the crackling of static.

.

.

.

" _Hello,_ Lady."

"Farkle. I thought we agreed, the codename is _'Mockingbird'_."

"And I was supposed to be the 'Oracle'. I thought it had a nice ring to it."

"Farkle."

"So, any sight of the White Eagle?"

"Stop."

"What? Lucas Friar won't mind whatever we call him – he'll be a lot more pissed when he realizes that -"

"Farkle, concentrate. I've gotten to the safe -"

"Already?"

"Yes – and now I need your calculations of the interior."

"I thought you were just interested in the contents?"

"I am. But I need to know whether or not I can smash my way through without damaging what's inside."

"Best not, Babe. The interior is just about one by one foot every way around, which you could work with, but they've programmed an alarm to trigger if anyone tries to force their way inside. You'll have to go the hard way."

"Fine. And don't call me Babe."

Jiggling the pin in the lock, she bit her lip and set to work.

She could feel her inner clock ticking as the minutes went by. The pin slipped, and she restrained herself from slamming a fist into the wall out of frustration. None of the inner mechanics were responding, not like they should.

Her cheeks grew hot, and her fingers ached.

But still, she worked.

* * *

A cry of triumph could be heard as she yanked away the lock and shoved the thick chains to the ground.

It was hers! A brief flash of light glowed behind her, and she turned just in time to see the lasers disappear, deactivated and dead.

Oh, the glory of the night.

Slamming open the thin metal door, her eyes widened in delight. There, there it was. Her prize, her salvation – laying on a cushion of maroon velvet and golden tassels, calling out to her, _"Maya, Maya, Maya"._ The glow of the small compartment illuminated her face in the dark, and she could have danced for joy. This was it. Her moment, her turning point, was here. Drunk on her own glory, she gave a small laugh.

.

.

.

A thin layer of glass protected the valuable from her twitching fingers, and she moved to flip it open until -

 _Fingerprint required for identification._

" _What?"_ she hissed, her jubilance fading. Farkle hadn't mentioned this.

 _Fingerprint required for identification._

The red words faded on the surface, only to pop up again, this time with a small beeping noise that increased every second.

Maya didn't have a fingerprint copy, but she sure as hell wasn't going to start all over.

"Oh, screw inconspicuous." she muttered to herself, feeling her rage take over.

 _CRASH!_

* * *

Glass shattered, she drew back her fist, thankful for her gloves. The beeping had increased even more, until it resembled an amplified fire alarm. She didn't care. Yanking the sparkling necklace from the pillow that was now littered with shards of glass, she stepped back to admire her handiwork.

The safe was in disarray, and her heart was beating fast.

"Pearls and gems and diamonds, oh my," she breathed to herself, suppressing a cackle. The necklace was extravagant – too magnificent for her taste – but for the highest bidder, this could go a long way. This could make her future. She could start over – she could become the artist she'd always wanted to be – she'd have enough money to get what she needed and then some – she would show that rich brat -

And then the door flew open, and a wide stream of light streamed from the doorway.

* * *

 _LUCAS FRIAR_

 _._

 _._

 _._

A petite woman clad in all black blinked up at him. Her blonde hair was long and loose, shielding half of her face from view. Leather fingerless gloves betrayed her fair skin tone, and a leather bag was slung over her shoulder.

The jewels in her hand glinted almost as brightly as the mischievous sparkle in her eyes – a sure sign of trouble.

"You." he growled. He didn't know who this woman was, but the necklace in her grip was enough to trigger the anger, bubbling, boiling beneath the surface.

"Hello there, handsome." she drawled. He could hear the smugness laced in her voice. "Looking for something?"

"Put it down."

His own voice was deadly calm. "Put it down now, and maybe you won't regret whatever happens next."

His words seemed foreign to him, and the cat burglar raised an eyebrow.

" _Put it down,"_ she mimicked. "You rich kids never learn, do you? If you want it, come and get it."

She turned on her heel and ran, and for a second, _where are the lasers_ flashed through his mind, until she barged through the glass doors of the balcony and climbed onto the edge. He chased after her, pausing a few feet away, cautious and intrigued.

* * *

The thief's arms were spread wide, natural grace assisting in balance. Her blonde hair danced around her face, and as she turned to face him, he was mesmerized by her expression, which could only be described as pure bliss. She looked wild and free, a pink smile stretched across her lips, eyes shining. She was beautiful.

Raising one gloved hand, she waved at him. For the smallest of moments, he had the ridiculous instinct to wave back shyly as if he was a teenager again. And then her body arched, weightless and slim, and she fell backwards into the darkness.

Horrified, he watched as she vaulted herself over the balcony, necklace and all. Rushing over to the edge, he peered down, his heart beating itself out of his chest.

Looking over the side, he caught no glimpse of a body moaning in the street below. No sign of her. No sign at all.

* * *

.

.

.

Isaiah Babineaux skidded into the room, panting.

"You can't ask me to – the stairs are – get an elevator -" he gasped between wheezes. The sight of his friend and the smashed safe stopped him in his tracks. "It's gone!" Zay exclaimed. His friend was slumped against a chair, his expression cloudy. "Your mother will be back from Europe in three days – what's she going to – who stole – how did this -?" he began to stammer.

"A woman. Wearing black. Blonde hair." he sighed. "I've already called the police. They're on their way."

His friend settled down beside him, hands over his eyes.

"So, some sort of Catwoman?" he asked, turning to his friend.

"No." he replied wearily, casting his eyes to the wall. Zay followed his gaze.

Carved into the wall, in bold letters, was a name, jeering and sharp.

 _Mockingbird._

The knife was stabbed underneath the title, the blade safely embedded in the wall.

A parting gift.

* * *

.

.

.

On the roof of the Friar mansion, a slim thief scaled her way over the tiles, giddy with laughter. Her head spun, and she felt like a child again, carefree and happy.

On the roof of the Friar Mansion, Maya Penelope Hart danced under the stars, the moon her spotlight, the inky canopy above her the raised curtains.

She sailed into the night.

* * *

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 _END_

 _._

 _._

 _._

* * *

 **By the way, the codenames 'Mockingbird' and 'White Eagle' is a reference to some Lucaya dialogue. Cookies to anyone who knows that episode it was in! AND having Farkle call himself the Oracle was just too awesome for me to resist (DC fans, anyone?).**


	2. The Rising Tide

**I'd like to thank everyone who read and reviewed, followed and favorited. It means so much to me that you guys are actually reading what I'm writing.**

 **I'm really sorry if I kept anyone waiting! I just have a lot of schoolwork and stupid teachers, and I don't have a lot of time to update or write.**

 **I'm not sure how plot-heavy I want this to go, but it definitely has potential to become a longer story – I've got an actual plot in the works that's being fine-tuned, but I'm still working on it.**

 **A lot of the GMW characters are similarly developed to certain DC characters in this AU. Watch out for huge DC references, as well as a few more characters. Smackle and Riley will be stopping by soon, so stay tuned.**

* * *

 _On the roof of the Friar mansion, a slim thief scaled her way over the tiles, giddy with laughter. Her head spun, and she felt like a child again, carefree and happy._

 _On the roof of the Friar Mansion, Maya Penelope Hart danced under the stars, the moon her spotlight, the inky canopy above her the raised curtains._

 _She sailed into the night._

* * *

 _One Week Later_

Farkle Minkus was short and thin. He had a mop of brown hair impeccably combed and carefully styled with gel. He wore pastel button ups and dark jackets, and his shoes were so shiny that if Maya knelt down and stared, she could see her own reflection.

Farkle Minkus's office was bigger than Maya's entire apartment, and the polished floor tiles were spotless, just like the smooth steel tabletops. A large glass wall revealed a city view – in the dark of the night, the gold dots of light speckled along the outline of the city were beautiful, offering a peaceful and bright tranquility that clashed with the brash noises of the city.

* * *

Farkle yanked down the blinds. Maya winced as they screeched to the floor, blocking out the light and noise of New York City.

He turned to her. "I've been busy constructing what may be my greatest creation yet!" he exclaimed, a devilish smile on his face.

"What, another portable microwave?" she rolled her eyes.

"No. why would it be another microwave?"

"Because you own a fucking company full of technological prodigies. You make rolls of cash with every stupid invention -"

"They're not stupid!" he protested. "They're all part of my scheme, my plan to take over the world!" he finished dramatically. Maya sighed.

"Yeah, I know, because you're an evil genius, yada, yada, yada. Whatever. It doesn't matter; as long as you've got the money and I've got the guns, we're all good. So, what is it?" she droned. "What is your new 'great creation'?"

"You!" he told her enthusiastically, hurrying over to his cluttered desk and rifling through the papers. Maya was lost.

"Huh?"

"You've been widely recognized in the newspapers as the 'Cat Burglar of Friar Mansion', or "Mockingbird'. Everyone knows about you – you've got attention, media, fan art -"

"Fan art?"

"New Yorkers have a lot of time on their hands. The point is, you are no longer inconspicuous. You're rather high profile now for that single heist. I've had quite a few contactors in the past few hours telling me that they want to hire the thief who got past Friar's computer systems. The rich kid is probably giving a description of your height, build, hair, and facial features right now."

"But – I was wearing a mask!" she sputtered. Her mind was suddenly invaded with a creeping sense panic. She'd been careful – right? Her previous elation was beginning to flake in her stomach, and she didn't like it one bit.

"Not a very good mask," Farkle countered. "Gray grease paint can only go so far, and unless you squirted him in the face with pepper spray, he'll probably have a vague recollection of _your_ face, especially your eyes."

The blonde crossed the room and sank down in an armchair, wishing that the fabric would swallow her up and the steel arms would clamp around her shoulders.

"What am I going to do?" she moaned angrily, face in hands. She was doomed. Doomed. If she was hauled behind bars, then it would be all his fault.

Lucas.

Stinking.

Friar.

She was going to kill that stupid snooty-son-of-an-even-snootier-snoot if it was the last thing she did.

* * *

"No worries, no worries," Farkle supplied in a reassuring voice. "I've come up with something new – I found a signature domino mask that's practical, and won't constrict your vision. I think we'll stick with a thin layer of grease paint as backup, and to conceal any recognizable areas around the eyes. Face scans can work wonders; you'd be surprised."

With this, he swiveled the face of his computer around and clicked onto a dark screen. With another tap of his fingers, the screen turned white, and Maya caught a fleeting glimpse of the file name _RISING TIDES._ Another tap, and a black domino mask popped up, placed on a shockingly accurate sketch of her face.

 _Really, Farkle? What do you do in your free time?_

"Really? A domino mask? How formula can you get?"

"Hey, it was either that or a pair of goggles, and I didn't think -"

"I'll take the mask." she snapped. It wasn't unstylish, and he made a good point.

"I knew you'd cave. And I took the liberty of redesigning your entire uniform, by the way. The model in the stimulation is anonymous, by the way." He pulled up the screen, and her jaw dropped.

"Farkle, this looks like something straight out of an abstract fashion magazine. I can't parade around the city in this."

"I added fingers to your gloves, so you won't leave fingerprints."

"I didn't -!"

"I never said you did. But now you won't have to worry about it. I've upgraded your little…'getup',"

At this, he gestured at the dark heap on the floor, "to an actual suit. It consists of fitted Kevlar, leather, and spandex. Don't worry; it's gray and black, nothing flashy."

"Are you serious?" she growled. She stood up in her chair so fast it scooted backwards.

"It's fitted, but flexible so you can breathe." He continued, oblivious to her incredulous tone.

"Oh, that's great. If I get shot, I'll bleed out, but "it's okay because my suit is thin and stretchable'," she mimicked, quotations in the air. "I can just yoga all of the policemen to death and see what happens!" she finished sarcastically, rolling her eyes. Farkle glanced up at her, eyes full of mirth.

"Nah, I was thinking you'd cartwheel through the city, Black Widow style. Only you'd evade the law and break into places and steal stuff."

"That's what I do."

"HA! I _told_ you there was a method to my madness!" he exclaimed, satisfied.

"No you didn't."

"Well, I did in my head."

"And the _fire-engine_ red lipstick? What's your method for that?" Maya snorted instead, squinting at the model. Her face was clean, pale, and unblemished. The only obvious hint of color was the shocking red lip she sported.

"Hey, it's for your public image. No contact of mine is going to want to hire a little brown field mouse, now will they?" he remarked with a smirk.

"Speak for yourself." she grumbled dryly, plopping back down in her seat.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Farkle wiggled his eyebrows. "The ladies all want a piece of this!"

 _In your dreams, kiddo._

* * *

"I'm a thief, not a model, Farkle." Maya ran a weary hand through her hair, leaning back in her chair.

"Maybe not, but you're a public figure now, whether you like it or not." he explained with a solemn expression. "You agreed to take on the job, and I agreed to be that nagging voice in your ear. We've got tens, hundreds, _thousands_ of potential buyers across the globe, and they won't be waiting for long before they either lose interest, or, most likely, decide to ignore the price and steal it for themselves. We're in this together, Maya, and there's no way out."

She refused to make eye contact. To her relief, he didn't elaborate.

* * *

"So, as far as footwear goes, we've got a few options. Sneakers would offer good traction, but the laces might be a hassle, so boots it is. I've found a few styles that you may want to consider."

He swiped a finger across the screen, sliding past different selections. He paused at some, skipped past others. On the eighteenth picture, he hesitated. "The boots have a bit of a heel, but that's not very functional, so I was thinking -"

They were black, with thick laces straight up to the knee, and a dark wedged heel lifting it several inches from the ground. They were perfect.

"Give me the boots."

"I know you're good, but even you can't possibly function in heels -"

"They're _wedges_ , not stilettos. There's a difference."

"Are you sure?"

"Like you said, it's for my public image."

"Alright, Lady. I really can't argue with that face."

"Haha, funny. But really, gimme some body armor."

* * *

"A smoking cat burglar. Well, there can't be too many of those running around in New York City. What do you remember about her?"

"I told the cops, and I told the forensics girl. I told them everything I -"

"Lucas, I'm not talking to you as a police officer, I'm talking to you as a friend who's concerned for your well-being. And if you hang up right now, I swear that in in five minutes, there will be one angry Isaiah Babineaux knocking on your door."

"Fine, fine! Her eyes. I couldn't miss her eyes. They were blue, and just really -"

"Really…?"

"Really," he struggled for words. "Really, ah…"

"C'mon, buddy, letters form words, and words form sentences."

" _Bright. She_ was bright. And she just seemed so…happy. Just so…free. Like she could do anything. And she was graceful, too, like there was some sort of silent beauty to her. I know she was dangerous; there wasn't a body on the ground after she jumped, and she's still out there, I'm sure of it. I just need to find her."

"Friar, you sound like a lovesick schoolboy. There are millions of blue-eyed girls that make us want to swoon around the world. What else stood out?"

"Her eyes were -"

"Besides that."

"Her hair?"

"Oh? What about it?"

"It was long, like a curtain. I couldn't see much, but I know she's white, I know she's petite, and I know she's a blonde."

* * *

"Oh, and one last thing."

"Yeah?"

"He's seen your hair – long, blonde, not hard to miss."

"And?"

"How do you feel about wigs? A red wig, in particular."

His fingers danced along the screen.

"How do you feel about a punch in the face?"

"Brunette it is. That is, if you're ready for round two. Maya Hart one, Billionaire zero?"

"Hell yeah." she sneered, her lips curling over her teeth.

Her hands clenched in fists. "Lucas Friar, here I come."

 _And watch out, Boy Scout. This is only the beginning._

* * *

 **I had a few subtle Arrow references and parallels – cookies to anyone who a) watches the show or b) noticed.**


	3. The Unasked Question

**There were a couple questions in the comments, like why Maya hated Lucas so much, and who Smackle is. And most importantly, _where is Riley?_**

 **All will be answered – sort of. Read carefully, dear Readers. By the way, did anyone here enjoy the onscreen performance of Missy? (hehehe...)**

 **Thank you for everyone who favorited or followed, and especially to those who commented!**

* * *

 _"How do you feel about wigs? A red wig, in particular."_

 _His fingers danced along the screen._

 _"How do you feel about a punch in the face?"_

 _"Brunette it is. That is, if you're ready for round two. Maya Hart one, Billionaire zero?"_

 _"Hell yeah." she grinned, her lips curling over her teeth._

 _Her hands clenched in fists. "Lucas Friar, here I come."_

* * *

 _Twelve Hours Later -_

 _Farkle's Office_

"I've waited _too_ long for a breakthrough, and there's no way a stupid rich _brat_ of a billionaire is going to ruin it for me!" she finished, throwing her hands in the air.

"Have you ever even met the guy?" Farkle asked, bemused. "I mean, other than the night you robbed him, of course." Maya stopped in her pacing, looking up at him. She almost managed a sheepish expression.

"No," she admitted, cheeks still flushed pink. "But I know what he's like. People like him just – just don't get it."

" _It?_ What is _it?"_

"How it is when candies aren't handed to you on a silver platter. I doubt he's ever been past downtown – when he hosts fancy parties full of rich associates and expensive caterers, it always ends up on the front pages of the New York Times. Do people ever focus on anything else? Like the fact that in the same city, there are shootings and people dying in the streets?"

"So…pissing off rich people is your hobby now?" Farkle asked.

"No." she answered shortly.

"Not the brightest choice, lady." he smiled, glancing around his office.

"I made my choice a long time ago." she disclosed wearily. "I've got to go soon. My apartment key is calling my name – if you need me, you'll know where to find me."

"Won't Riley be worried? You've been gone for three days."

"Nah – she knows I disappear from time to time. I sent her a few text messages. She'll be fine - I'll just tell her I've been staying at your place." she waved a hand dismissively, dropping the diamond into her clutch.

"Alright," Farkle muttered dubiously. "You know, for a roommate and a best friend, Riley is far too lenient. If only she knew of your…'nighttime prowls'." he teased. Maya rolled her eyes, sliding her legs off of the desk.

"I spent almost two whole days in your stupid secret lair listening to you rattle off all of your intricate plans _A_ through _Z_. I don't think I'll be doing that again – at least, not voluntarily. Riley will never have to worry about a thing; not if I can help it."

Maya was determined to keep it that way.

* * *

 _Twenty-Four Hours Later_

"As I've told you, I've got quite a few contacts." the businessman started, rolling up the last of his papers.

"I know." she groaned. "Just get _on_ with it." There were dark circles under her eyes, and she wanted more than anything to slap a piece of duct tape over his mouth. That morning, all she'd had for breakfast was leftover Chinese food and bottled water, and her head ached.

"The top three who offered the most impressive sum seemed like the best candidates, no?" Farkle offered slyly.

At this, she perked up. "What'd they offer?"

He slid the file over to her, and she flipped it open.

Her mouth dropped.

"Whoa. Those are a lot of zeroes. Why do these guys want it so much?" she marveled, tracing the zeroes with her finger. Farkle smiled lazily at her and spread his arms out, nearly knocking empty takeout cartons off of the table.

"You don't have to worry your pretty little head around the nuts and bolts, lady."

"Farkle."

"Sorry. A few of the biggest and the baddest have a few scores to settle with the Friar family, revenge and such, you know, and maybe they think that by getting the necklace, they'll do just that." he explained. She yawned in spite of herself, and propped herself up on the edge of the desk.

"Oh? And who's our lucky winner?" she asked, eyebrow arched.

"A chap with billions of dollars, but no reputation. I can't find anything on him, which is strange, because my database has access to almost every network and online file in the world."

"But he's got the money, and he's willing to negotiate?" she asked slowly.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"He sent coordinate locations. Don't worry; the drop off location is still in New York."

"When?"

"A couple months from now."

"A couple _months_?!" she exclaimed. "Why so long? And how does he know that we won't get a better offer by that time?"

Farkle held up his hands in sign of surrender. Meanwhile, Maya stood up and snatched her coat from a nearby chair. Stepping back into her shoes, she headed toward the door, apartment keys already in her hand. Farkle made a brief sound of protest, and she hesitated, blinking sleep from her eyes.

"Hey, I don't know! It's his agenda; and remember, the client gets what they want, if they can pay for it. And he can. Besides, it'll give us time to prepare." he explained defensively. Her eyes narrowed, and she paused at the door. Something didn't seem right.

"Prepare? He doesn't want a shipment?"

Farkle shook his head.

"He asked for _you_ to deliver it in person. _Specifically_."

* * *

 _Friar Mansion_

It was early in the evening, and salmon light spilled out onto the cobblestones of the massive driveway of Friar Mansion. Cars were pulled up in the grass, all gleaming, and all magnificent. Even from outside the residence, music and laughter could be heard.

The party was already underway when the host decided to make an appearance.

Lucas Friar grinned as he descended down the stairs. At the foot of the staircase, Zay peered up at him, half exasperated, half amused.

Lucas yanked at his tie, straightening the navy fabric. A girl with straight dark hair and dark eyes clung to his arm, clad in purple satin and heels. She glanced up and down at Zay with appraising eyes. Her mouth twitched into a satisfied smirk.

"Date?" Zay whispered out of the corner of his mouth. Lucas gave a smile, and replied in a regular voice.

"Cousin." He turned to the girl, slipping his arm from hers. "Missy, this is my friend Isaiah Babineaux. Zay, Helena Bertinelli."

" _Missy_ Bertinelli." she corrected quickly, flashing a pearly smile. "I go my middle name nowadays – but _you_ can call me anything you want." she added with a saucy wink. Zay gaped at her before clearing his throat and looked at Lucas, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the girl next to him.

"There's someone to see you, and they're not here for the party. She says that it's about the case – called herself Isadora."

"Is she a policewoman? Do you think they found the thief?" Lucas asked, stiffening.

"There can't be too many blonde ninjas running around New York," he grinned. Missy raised an eyebrow.

"Blonde ninja -?"

Just then, a small voice cleared its throat.

* * *

Isadora Smackle was not very tall, but her manner and her heels more than made up for her lack of height.

"Isn't this just a…marvelous time to host a party." she remarked wryly. Lucas twitched uncomfortably, glancing at Zay.

"My mother is returning from Europe today, and I thought that a welcoming party would be a good…." he trailed off at her stale look. "Ah, and who are you supposed to be?"

Her lip curled ever so subtly.

"They'd send only the best for a Friar, and quite frankly, I'm the best around. Isadora Smackle, forensics scientist at your service." she quipped immediately, adjusting her glasses. Brown eyes peered out from raspberry frames.

At this, Zay snorted and muttered something incomprehensible under his breath. She shot a sharp look in his direction, and he quieted. She wore a form fitted blue dress and jacket, looking strangely real and professional compared to the dancing guests. She clashed, and she didn't even have the nerve to look uncomfortable.

"Continue."

"I'd prefer not to disclose the report until all additional parties have left the room." At this, she looked at Missy and Zay. "Go on," she glared at Missy, "shoo."

Lucas sighed and nodded at his cousin, who left with an indignant sniff, disappearing through the nearest doorway and into the flurry of guests and music. Isadora looked at Zay expectantly, to which Lucas said, "Zay stays."

Hesitation.

"Alright, then, if you insist." she gave a frown, but proceeded. " _Authorities_ have requested that we meet and talk about the previous events. However, I'm on short notice, and I've only just dropped by. I'll make this quick. I'm talking about the small traces of blood found on the crime scene." Isadora reported.

* * *

The billionaire started.

"What? There was no blood. I – I mean, I didn't notice any." Lucas corrected her, eyes wide. There wasn't a scuffle with the mysterious thief. If there had been, he was fairly certain he could take her. She may have been fast and agile, as well as flexible and resourceful, not to mention extremely clever…but still…he hadn't noticed any blood.

The forensics woman dismissed this easily.

"Expected – the occurrence of happened _after_ the authorities marked off the area, meaning that someone visited the premises _after_ you left. The sample we found is not a match with anyone who was recorded stepping foot in the room, nor does it match your DNA. Small drops were found nearby overturned chairs and various furniture – and based on your description, there was no other disruption. These drops were not found near broken glass, making it unlikely to belong to your… _cat burglar_. Security cameras were disabled, and -"

"How do you know that?" Zay piped up. "About the blood?"

She gave a thin smile, and twisted at her silver cuff bracelet. "You wouldn't understand. It's -"

"Wibbley-wobbly-timey-whimy-stuff?" Zay guessed. Isadora paused.

"For simplicities sake, let's leave it at that. It means you've got another problem, and my superiors have assigned _me_ to find out what it is. You've got a third party – whether they were meddling with evidence or looking for something, I intend to find out who it is, or _what_ it is."

"But how -" Zay started.

"I am also a Detective. I've got a badge and qualifications if you need to check." she told him curtly, though with not small amount of satisfaction. Zay stepped back, hands in the air.

"I just won't ask anymore," he muttered. She smirked and turned to leave.

"I'll be in touch. I've got a plane to catch."

* * *

"Oh? If you want, my chauffer can drive you to the airport. It's the least it can do." Lucas offered.

"No, no, that's alright. I've got a jet. It's a family loan."

At this she grinned directly at Zay, triumphant.

Zay's eyebrows crept toward his hairline, and he looked her over with renewed interest.

* * *

"So I take it this isn't your first rodeo?" he conversed, glancing down at her.

Lucas led her back through the hallway, and took note of the way her eyes skimmed over the furniture and delicate ornaments adorning the walls. The eyes of countless Friars stared at them through portraits, and the red carpet muffled their footsteps completely.

"Of course not. Trust me when I say I have experience." Isadora told him, her voice reaching frigid temperatures. "It's nice to get back into the field." she admitted in a light voice. "I just got back from a…vacation." she craned her neck as she peered at the broad and distant ceilings, high and laden with sparkling chandeliers.

"Where from?" Lucas asked politely, moving to open the door for her. Isadora paused and tilted her head.

"Greece, visiting family." She smiled to herself. "It's lovely this time of year."

Lucas nodded, and gestured through the open doorway. A sleek limousine was parked outside, waiting. It wasn't his.

Isadora Smackle headed out and down the stairs, before hesitating.

"Oh, Mr. Friar," she turned, "I'd recommend you clear the area of reporters and rookie journalists searching for a new story. Facts may get distorted and distributed." she remarked wryly, glancing at the open doorways and bustling crowds.

And with that, she left.

* * *

"Let me get this straight; you have no idea who this guy is or where he's been, he's offering us billions of dollars out of the blue, and you decided that it would be fun to send _me_ out to meet him?" she hissed. Farkle glanced up at her.

"Maya, he's offering us a job. Not just payment for the necklace – he wants a full time employment, all because of your 'skills'. Breaking into places and stealing stuff – it's what you do best."

A pause.

She gave in.

"So do we even know who this mystery guy is? Or girl?" she sighed, running a hand through her hair.

"It's a man." he assured her quickly, before pausing. "At least, I think so. He signed the message as _'Mr. J'_. He said he couldn't wait to meet us and see what else we had under our sleeves."

"What a jokester." Maya deadpanned, not amused in the slightest.

* * *

 **Congratulations to anyone who realized the DC identity of Missy. Can anyone guess who Smackle may be, DC-wise? The hints were there, and I didn't think they were overly subtle…and Farkle and Maya have made a deal with the mysterious Mr. J, oh my…**

 **I'm sorry – it takes a while for me to finish chapters. Hold on for me, please!**


	4. Well, Shit

**The fourth chapter is finally here! I'm SO SORRY it took so long – I'm warning you, I'm not fantastic with updates, and it can take a while.**

 **Some people must've been wondering a) when and where Riley would fit into this, and b) when Maya and Lucas would run into each other again (because, fate, destiny, plot convenience, etc.!). Ta-da.** **Here it is.**

 **If anyone was wondering who Smackle resembled, I can recap the hints if the subtle references weren't enough. Now that I look through it, I realize that they were pretty vague in some cases. I'll just go through them.**

 **1\. Isadora wears blue, and has silver cuff bracelets.**

 **2\. She has her own private plane. Or, as she likes to call it, a _jet._**

 **3\. She has a family living in someplace other than America.**

 **4\. She has spent time in _Greece._**

 **Do what you want to do with this information. If you think you've guessed it (and I hope you have), then comment on who you think it is.**

 **Thank you so much for those who have read, favorited, followed, or commented. It means a lot to me. If you want to PM me about anything, then don't be a stranger. Go ahead.**

 **Now, without further ado, chapter four.**

* * *

 _MAYA HART_

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Maya Hart shoved the key into the lock and twisted it. A cold draft from outside rushed past her through the open window at the end of the hallway, and she shivered, imagining the inevitable chill come next month and having to stomp snow out of her boots every day.

Pushing open the door, she peered cautiously into her apartment. Just as she left it. Almost.

It was quaint but cheerful, cramped but tidy.

Books were stacked neatly on the low coffee table in front of the television set, and the brown couch was old but durable, set on solid wooden legs. The kitchenette was wiped down, and the cushion seats by the bay window were straightened side by side. A thin ray of light was peering through the shutters of the window, cast across the wooden floors and splaying over the length of the room. Everything was in order. Except -

"Riley?" she called out. "Riles?"

A sudden scream and a flash of color burst from the couch cushions and over the edge. "Maya!" Riley jumped to her feet and lunged. The person in question flinched, and braced herself for impact.

* * *

Riley caught her in a tight hug before pulling back in delight. "You were gone so long, I was getting worried!" Her socks were visible over her tights, and Maya noted Riley's boots tucked carefully behind the armchair. She'd been waiting, on edge.

Maya hugged her back before pulling away and setting her purse down.

"Riles, you know me. Always staying out of trouble." she grinned uneasily. Her friend didn't notice, and started nervously smoothing down the invisible wrinkles in the fabric of her skirt.

"I mean, I know that I texted you a thousand times and you responded and everything, but then I thought that I don't really know the person on the other side of the phone. I mean, it could have been a kidnapper, and I wouldn't even have known the difference!"

"What?" she asked. Riley turned from her and started pacing, hand stroking her chin.

"You've been my best friends for such a long time now that I started feeling guilty that I may not even be able to recognize the style of your texts…you do you capitalization or not? Do you type the letter two or the word 'to'? Do you add three emoji's on average or four?"

"You're rambling."

"Am I?"

"Yeah – what's going -"

"I met a boy." Riley said suddenly, turning around and looking her in the eyes. Maya sighed and rolled her eyes. She clapped a hand over her face and let out a groan.

"A little one? Because I know I put my foot down on adopting a dog, but a kid is too much to -"

"No, no, I met a _guy._ A beautiful grown _man_ with a beautiful smile and -"

"Whoa…a real, _real_ guy? Like, a dateable one? A dateable one that you can take out of a plastic package and keep forever and ever? What's he like? How did you meet?" Maya asked in excitement, grabbing her by the shoulders and jumping up and down. Her friends jumped with her, smiling all the while.

"Well, I did spill coffee on his shirt, possibly." she admitted, now slightly out of breath. "Can we – can we stop the jumping now?"

She panted for a moment before straightening up. "I offered to pay for dry cleaning, but he told me his _butler_ would take care of it. His _butler._ Can you believe it, Maya? He's got a butler!"

Maya arched a brow.

"Wait – so this guy you ran into on the street just so happens to be rich _and_ hot?"

She nodded. "I think he's the one, Maya." Riley's eyes shone, and Maya rolled her own. Riley Matthews had said the same thing about the last three relationships in her life – and most of them didn't end well. "At first, I was too busy apologizing to ask his name. But then…I recognized his face. There was a giant advertisement board right in front of us, and _his face was on it._ There were two of him right in front of me, only one was _gigantic_ and a few buildings away, and the others was there _in_ person asking if I was alright."

All right. This was news.

"He's got a billboard? Who -?"

"Lucas Friar."

* * *

A beat passed, and then another. Maya felt like she'd been punched in the gut.

 _"…What?"_

"Lucas Friar!" she jumped up and down now, chocolate curls bouncing across her shoulders. "It's Lucas Friar!"

Now she felt like she'd been whacked in the head with a bag of wet cement, and then hit by a truck. She might as well have.

"Are you serious? Tell me you're joking. Tell me you're not serious. Tell me this is all just an elaborate prank set up to get revenge on me being gone so long."

Internally she prayed that Riley was confused, that she'd wandered off in the that imagination of hers and had cooked up some dream boy she'd run into on the street and brought home that just so happened to _look_ like the billionaire who'd been previously robbed. She prayed that this was the case, or else the fates especially hated her, to a wide extent.

"What? You don't like Lucas Friar? How do you not like Lucas Friar? He's beautiful, kind, and generous. He donates to charities; _he has billboards._ " Riley exclaimed, waving her hands in the air. Maya crossed her arms and took several deep breaths.

* * *

 _I will not panic. I will not panic. I will not panic. Stay cool. Stay calm. Calm. Calm._

"Exactly. Exactly why he's a stuck-up son of a -"

"You don't even know him."

"Neither do you."

"I know him better than you, Maya, I've _met_ him."

"I…know enough."

"Entertain me."

A long moment passed, and Maya stayed silent.

"He has a lot of _money."_ she said finally, stretching out the last word to the fullest extent. "He's got bunch of cars parked in a fancy garage and lots of fancy parties, and every night he's got at least six different women hanging on his arms."

Maya didn't notice Riley flinch at this. "And he's had everything in his life handed to him on a literal silver platter, plus about a thousand of employed workers waiting on him hand and foot. Lucas Friar probably even has a half-assed security guard to guard his expensive shoe collection.

"He's a useless excuse of a businessman who doesn't have a clue about what he's doing." she finished, laying her hands on her lap.

A moment of confused silence.

"You already don't like him, then?" Riley asked, her face falling with every word. Her shoulders slumped, and for once, Maya wasn't sure what to say.

"– I just think that – he's not all he's cracked up to be, for a billionaire celebrity. And personally, I'm glad that I've never met him." she said slowly, subconsciously crossing her fingers.

Riley cleared her throat suddenly and crossed her eyes.

"He's in the laundry room, Maya."

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* * *

Right on cue, a figure emerged from the curtain of the laundry room, a white towel draped over his shoulders. He was a grown man, and well-built with broad shoulders. Stepping into the living room, he looked around for a moment.

Maya froze for one, awful second. Her eyes were fixed on this new stranger in _her_ apartment, this unwelcome _intruder_ that she never wanted to see again. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

 _Hey, what are the odds? A thousand to none?_

Lucas Friar stared back at her.

 _A thousand to none is right._

"Do – do I know you?"

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 _Well, shit._

* * *

 ** _We've all been through that 'first encounter' moment, now haven't we? Now, if only we knew where our dear mockingbird will fly next?_**


	5. It's a Grim Road Ahead

**Brief flash forward from the present time.**

* * *

 _Two Years Later_

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* * *

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 _The night was alive with cars and flickering lights. But unknown to the rest of the city, there was a young woman dying in the basement of a church, her light flickering on and off._

* * *

 _The ground was cold and damp._

 _She tucked her hair behind her hair and coughed. Sprawled on the ground, under swinging lights and the scuttle of vermin scampering across the rafters above, she twitched as the bullet shells fell out of her hand and onto the ground._

 _Her eyes were fixed at the ceiling._

" _Maya Hart didn't know what she was getting into, messing with Mr. J." she rasped. "The girl's a good one...clever, slippery, and quick. Hard to catch, and even harder to kill. But she was never a hero. She was a thief, rotten to the core and motivated by self-preservation. Someday, she was bound to slip up."_

 _She paused to grin. It was wide and painful, a bloody smile that stretched across her face so tightly that her bruised gums were exposed._

 _Riley's blood ran cold, and she clutched at the metal pipe as tightly as she could. The woman laughed and couched and hacked up blood. Crimson liquid bubbled from her lips, and her eyes bulged in the sockets. She dissolved into a fit of spasms and retched coughs before finally choking back a mixture of nausea and red._

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* * *

 _Slowly, slowly, slowly, she turned her head to the side to look her straight in the eyes. Mirth danced in her expression. "Even mockingbirds get caught. Choose a side, pumpkin, choose a side."_


	6. When Harry Met Sally

**I'm back. Wow.**

 **I haven't updated since last year. I suck. I apologize, as I probably had people waiting, but there was a lot going on, and I took a temporary break from watching GMW for about a month. When I finally got back to catching up, I pretty much exploded. I kept thinking to myself, I'm going to update soon, I'm going to update soon –**

 **As you may have guessed, I didn't update soon.**

 **As a warning, I'm a little rusty. Okay, very rusty. Like, my hinges are creaking and broken and I need an oil change/new parts. My writing is a little on the nose, and I'll be needing more practice, but this chapters is, at the very least, legible. I tried. As of the moment, I crave live on feedback and advice, so comments and reviews will be the light of my life. I'm currently looking for a beta (possibly? Maybe?), so perhaps editing won't be so strenuous. Any good beta recommendations?**

 **Yeah…so on that note, please enjoy. Don't forget to review!**

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 **MAYA HART**

 **APARTMENT**

 **NEW YORK CITY**

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Maya Hart knew what risk meant. She'd known since she was a small child that when times were desperate, risks were required. She was fifteen when he hijacked her first car and got away with it – sixteen when she broke into her first house. She knew every time she broke a window or fiddled with a lock that if she got caught, then that would be the end of her – she would sink into a dark puddle of shadow and tar and never be heard from again. Maya Hart knew how to take risks. She got better and better over the years, until danger was fun and nicking people's wallets was a thrilling pastime.

This might've been the biggest crime she'd pulled off, ever, and this was definitely the biggest risk. Ever.

* * *

 _"Do - do I know you?"_

* * *

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"No, I don't think so." she answered coolly, resting a hand on her hip. His brow crinkled in confusion, and he cocked his head. Even with a brown stain blossomed on his white button down shirt and a damp towel slung over his shoulder, he was still ruggedly handsome with an athletic build, a flawless, tanned face and eyes that brought Maya into a stupor consisting of puppies prancing around a grassy field near a beach of calm green waters. Damn, this guy was good.

"I could swear that we've met somewhere -" he started, eyes transfixed on her face. Maya hoped that her expression was composed – a blank slate that would give away nothing. She cocked and eyebrow and met his gaze with a curled lip.

"You're mistaken. Riley, why don't you introduce us?" she asked, still not taking her eyes off of the man in front of her.

"This is Lucas Friar." Riley spoke slowly, unsurely. Her hands twitched, and the anxiety and curiosity on her face was loud and clear for all to read. Luckily for her, neither of them so much as spared her a glance. Maya's heart hammered in her chest. _Shit. Shit. Shit._ Without taking her eyes off him, she hung up her coat on the rack behind her with one hand. He met her gaze unflinchingly.

"I met Riley over coffee. I take it you're her roommate?" he nodded in a delicate voice. She shot him a quick smile, all pearly teeth.

"That's right. I'm her roommate – and her best friend, actually. You've been on the news lately, haven't you?" she asked carefully, turning away and pretending to brush away an imaginary speck of dust on her coat. "I thought you looked familiar." Riley rolled her eyes at this, and moved towards the kitchen.

"Can I get you anything, Lucas?" she called over her shoulder. "Do you want a – a coffee? Or something?" Her voice trailed off awkwardly, and she wrung her hands. "It's the least I could do, after I spilled on your shirt. I mean, it must have hurt because the coffee was very hot, and you're very hot, so it must have been scalding – wait, I meant – no, not that you're hot – no, not that you're _not_ hot – that's not what I was trying to say at all. I just meant that the coffee must have hurt, and I'm sure that I can pay for it. I mean, I could pay to have your shirt cleaned. Or buy you another shirt. But I don't know your size, even though you look pretty firm and – I mean, not firm, I just mean you look like a good-sized guy. Not like, fat, because you're very fit and gorgeous and I can see your muscles and everything but you know, you're about six feet tall and I know nothing about shirt sizes so -"

Lucas interrupted her rambling kindly and patiently, like he was used to this. Maya narrowed her eyes.

"No thanks, Riley. I already robbed you of your afternoon; I'd hate to steal your coffee as well," he added with a wink. Riley blushed and stammered, and something dark and intense swelled up in Maya's chest. Something about seeing this young, smug billionaire flirt with _Riley_ of all people (the kindest, most innocent, trusting, naïve idiot she knew) set her on fire. Not literally, of course, but if she ever found herself robbing his home again, she'd be sure to keep the euphemism in mind. She shook the thought off – crook she may be, but arsonist she was not. Lucas turned his attention back to her, sizing her up. Amusement danced in his eyes, and Maya glared at the subtle address of their height differences. He stood more than a head taller than she did – the top of her head barely reached his shoulder. "And yeah, there was a bit of a…family scandal. Concerning family jewels. Nothing we couldn't handle."

* * *

Smooth, she thought. He's a good liar – not good enough, though. The tightening of his jaw said otherwise. If she kept poking and prodding, he'd be pissed.

"Family jewels, eh?" she shrugged. "What a pity." Lucas's shoulders stiffened, and he looked up at her.

"You know about that?" he asked, surprised. She almost laughed at his expression. _It isn't worth it, Maya. Don't make this worse._

"It's something of a national tragedy," she remarked dryly, unable to repress an eye roll. _Too late._ "I'd be living under a rock if I hadn't heard about that. It'll be the biggest story of the year, you know." Lucas moved from the other side of the couch, and she automatically took another step away. It wasn't that she was intimidated – far from that. But -

"Heard about what?" Riley piped up suddenly from behind her. "Family jewels? You have jewels?" She turned toward Lucas again, her voice filled with awe. Lucas winked, _again._ Wow, laying it on thick. Way to go, dipshit. Way to be a monumental suck-up. Of course, Lucas Friar the billionaire could afford to be anything he wanted, so she kept her mouth clenched shut.

"None as beautiful as you," he teased. Maya groaned while Riley blushed tomato red. "Unfortunately, some family heirlooms were taken a few nights ago. I don't know how the intruder could've broken in, but -"

"Surprise, buddy, your security's shit." Maya chimed in helpfully. Lucas glared at her. "What, I'm just saying! If someone managed to infiltrate your premises nearly undetected, then they were either lucky, or very, _very_ efficient." _Subtlety down the drain. Shit._

"My mother's in Texas, visiting some family," he explained carefully, as if speaking to a small child. She crossed her arms and huffed. "We double-layered security in her absence, so there's no -"

"You've got family in Texas?" she grinned. "Let me guess, you're a descendant from a long line of filthy rich cowboys? Who earned a living through years of skilled cow herding and cow-tipping?" One look at the sheepish expression he sported, and she snorted so loudly that Riley jumped. "It's true? Posh."

"Well, I wouldn't say that…" he started, scratching the back of his head. "My great-grandfather started small -"

"I swear, if you say it was a small loan of a million dollars, I will -" she shook her fist mock-threateningly. He laughed and shook his head.

"No, I was going to say that he started small on a ranch – he and my great-grandmother climbed the social ladder somehow, and Friar Enterprises started out as a merchant house. As you can see, we've invested wisely, and it's…expanded. We've got dozens of charities, businesses, and organizations all over the world. I guess my great-grandpa showed me that anyone with a big idea and determination can make it big in the world, and maybe change people's lives." He flashed her a white smile, and another tick of irritation flared up inside. _How charming._ Riley practically melted at the mention of charities, but Maya just stared, hard. "We're trying to make the world a better place by putting food in the hands of the homeless and wiping crime off of the streets. Hunger, poverty, and criminal behavior remain some of the biggest problems in the city, contributing to our social and economic -"

"Alright, Sundance, we get it," she sniped. "You're a Saint."

"No, it's just helping the people. The more support we have, the more we can do."

"Capitalism." she breathed quietly.

"Empathy." Oh. Not quietly enough, apparently.

"Lovely. I'll bet you say that on all your pamphlets," she drawled, holding out a hand. "Well, Cowboy, it was _lovely_ to meet you," she purred, "but I'm a busy, busy person, which I'm sure you could understand." _Leave. Please, leave,_ she thought. He took her hand and gave it a firm shake.

"Listen, have I done anything…anything at all that you haven't told me about?" She looked at him like he'd grown three heads. "I mean, if I did something wrong, you can just tell me." Lucas looked earnest, like a small puppy begging not to be kicked in the stomach. Maya's insides twisted.

"If I have something to say, I'll say it." Maya informed him impatiently. Lucas merely tilted his head and regarded her strangely as well. Great. Now they were both staring.

"I wouldn't put it past you." She blinked, and he stared down at her still. She was aware that somehow, despite the height difference, their faces were inches apart. A beat passed, and then another. _Ka-thump. Ka-thump. Ka-thump._ Oh. That was her heartbeat. Dammit. "Hey, maybe we'll run into each other again."

Maya shook herself out of the stupor and moved toward the doorway again, refusing to make eye contact. "Yes, New York is _such_ a small city." She rolled her eyes and moved to slam the door shut.

"Sure, sure. Look, I'm sorry if we got off on the wrong foot here -"

"You're fine," she interrupted harshly, now nearly dragging towards the doorframe by the elbow.

"Hey – I don't even know your name!" he protested. Maya glared at him, before relenting.

"Maya. Maya Hart."

"Lucas. Lucas Friar. Give me a call, okay? I wouldn't mind seeing you again." Seemingly out of nowhere, he produced a glossy white business card and a pen. After scribbling a number on the back, he thrust it at her, and she stepped back quickly, hands up. Either he was propositioning her, or he was just pathetic, lonely, or desperate for human interaction. Either choice was interesting, although both just wouldn't do, in her case.

"Hey, Cowboy, I don't need -"

"That's so kind of you!" Riley piped up. "We'll be sure to call you." She snatched the card from his hand and held it to her chest, looking the part of a love-struck young woman watching her boyfriend board a train to war. Her eyes were like stars, bright and hopeful, and Maya knew that there was no way she could burn the card immediately. Maybe once her back was turned, she could rip it up and bury it. "I'm so sorry about the coffee!" Lucas smiled at Riley and tipped an imaginary hat at Maya – and then she slammed the door in his face, and put a hand to her temple.

" _Ugh."_

Riley leaned against the door with a sigh, and slid to the floor with the card still clasped in her hands. "Don't you see, Maya? He's so handsome and kind and – he's perfect." Maya scowled darkly and moved toward the kitchen.

 _Perfect my ass._

* * *

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 **LUCAS FRIAR**

 **STREETS**

 **NEW YORK CITY**

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As he trotted down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the bustling air of the city, he couldn't help but look up at the highest window of the building, where he'd left the stuttering, doe-eyed brunette and the eloquent blonde beauty behind.

Lucas Friar never liked complicated things. ' _Complicated'_ meant time, energy, and work. It wasn't that he was too lazy for any of those things, or that he was too arrogant to understand their worth – no, quite the opposite. Despite popular belief, his entire life wasn't handed to him on a silver platter, and he wasn't waited on hand and foot. But often enough, when things got complicated, things got too difficult for him to handle on his own. Complicated things were often sly and subtle, things impossible to understand or comprehend. Simple was better – much, much better.

Riley was simple. She was pretty and kind, and a little awkward. When he bumped into her on the street, he couldn't turn down her proposal to mop up the stains. It wouldn't have done any good, but she didn't know that, and she was just so honest that turning her down would've been like tossing a sack of puppies in a river.

He just didn't know how anyone could do it.

But Maya Hart, this small, fierce blonde thing of a girl, was complicated. She was confusing, and this should've infuriated him. All things that were complicated should be left to the people with more time and patience than he owned – but he couldn't shake her out of his head. The curl of her lips, and clear blue of her eyes, even the mirth playing in the corner of her smirk danced in his mind like a broken record. She was straightforward and blunt. She didn't bat her eyelashes once, and something in her voice was raw and untamed.

This was interesting. This was different.

Her eyes were a clear, calculating blue, and her gaze tore into him with ferocious intent. The moment after he caught his breath, he knew that she didn't like him. She _hated_ him. She _loathed_ him. The expression was familiar enough. He was no stranger to looks of contempt, of unbridled jealousy from politicians and wealthy rivals. But Maya Hart loathed him with a passion, and he wanted to know why. Although she insisted they'd never met, something about her was alluring and familiar – perhaps she resembled one of his ex-girlfriends? No, he would've remembered someone like that.

She was rude, loud, dry-cut and invasive. She made no effort to agree or sympathize with any of his whims, beliefs, or ideas. She challenged him on everything he brought up, and shot down almost all of his attempts at polite socializing (something that most people would've killed for, given his wealth and influence).

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" _Maya. Maya Hart." she glared, her expression indicating he get the hell out of her apartment._

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She was a spitfire, all right, but definitely worth his energy and work. All of which he intended to give – given he had the time.

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Maya pulled up the zipper of her suit and adjusted the dark wig. Unfamiliar brown locks hung around her face, and a dark mask framed her eyes. Thick gloves were strapped on, and two holsters hung at her hips. Several knives with black blades were slipped into the folds of her sleeves, and the black boots brought her up at least three inches. In the mirror, she looked unrecognizable even to herself – a slim, dark figure with bold curves and dozen weapons hidden and unseen in the dark shadows of her body. She shook her head at the reflective glass.

"I look like a dominatrix." Better dominatrix than a homeless person, she thought. Farkle was right; this fabric really is breathable. Maya cast one look at her door; she knew that on the other side of the wall, Riley Matthew was fast asleep, face buried in her pillow. Peaceful and oblivious. Good. She silently slid open the glass shutter of her window and stepped out onto the balcony looking out into the city. Her heels rattled against the metal grates beneath her. The breeze struck her skin quickly and suddenly, and she suppressed a shiver. Parked below, her motorcycle was waiting for her.

Miles away, so was her target.

" _Mockingbird, do you copy?"_ Maya touched a hand to her communicator pinned by her ear underneath the wig and began scaling her way down the fire escape, twisted and flipping over railings and rusty stairways.

"I'm on it. Send me the coordinates."

She hopped onto the ground and approached her bike. Maya flipped up the stand and gripped the handlebars. Farkle's voice crackled in her ear, and she envisioned her destination as she talked. This was another rich man's house, an expensive condo with lavish security measures that were more for show than play. This employer wanted something specific – a particular painting of a fruit bowl and a pitcher of mild standing side by side. This was to be a quick in-and-out trip, with no contact unless absolutely necessary. Shame.

The motorcycle roared to life and sped away into the dark.

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 **So, to recap, Maya has no self-restraint, and Lucas thinks she's as subtle as a bomb. Hm.**


	7. They Call the Rising Sun

**Really quick, I'm dishing out all those chapters that I outlined months ago but never got around to updating. Prepare for a bucket load.**

 **To the reviewers who have assured me that my writing isn't rusty in the slightest, thank you so much. I appreciate it, and encouragement feels so, so good.**

 **Guest/Jess: Jess, who are you, huh? Oh, you know me so well. Oh, my god. Either you're psychic, you have good intuition, or you know your comics well, but you hit everything right on the nose. I mean everything, from the Diana Revelation (she's a strong, independent woman with multiple degrees and job qualifications. And something about her glasses reminds me of secret identities/intelligence/beauty without cosmetics) to the Rising Tide reference. And Mr. J (smirks and cackles to myself). I totally do Marvel/DC, and Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D./Arrow. They've helped inspire the story so much. I thought the 'hacking' reference would be a perfect Farkle chapter title, and I like to think that he has code names for all of his files.**

 **To the Guest who commented, "The eagle soars above the mockingbird". That's the exact quote, although most of you have guessed that by now. 'White Eagle' was a foreshadowing to Lucas's more lighthearted personality in the future and his different moral code compared to Maya, who is clad in all black.**

 **To all of you readers, I'm just wondering; how far should this 'Wonder Woman' thing go? Do you want it to just be a quick, "Hey, I'm from Themyscira, *wink wink*," or do you think a full-blown bracelets and lasso of truth would do Smackle justice? Comment below, and remember, feedback and reviews give me life.**

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To be clear, Maya Penelope Hart has never killed anyone. On purpose, anyway. 'On purpose', meaning that she has never slipped through the shadows of the city and sent a bullet flying into someone's head – she has never followed an innocent civilian on their way to work like a cat might stalk its prey, waiting to strangle their neck in her hands, and she has never pushed someone off of a building and into the glistening nothing waiting below. Even if she does steal things for a living, and she has contented herself with lying to the only person she can afford to care for, and even if killing would sometimes be easier (so, so much easier), she does not kill people. No, Maya Penelope Hart has never killed anyone. She's never murdered anyone, that is. However, murder and manslaughter are two different things entirely.

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 _When she is eleven, too young to understand the world but too old to hold delusions about it, she is nothing more than a scrappy kid with dirt rimmed around her eyes and her blonde hair hacked into a shape resembling a bob. Well, it looked more like she'd received a haircut from a weed whacker, but the lap of luxury was something she could never afford. Haircuts weren't important, not when her apartment was crawling with bugs and her mother worked misfit jobs from daylight to daybreak and it was all they could do to afford a gallon of milk every three weeks. Public school was a hassle, and most days she didn't bother to show up._

 _She may have been a street-rat, and she may have dirt stuffed in every orifice of her skin, but she had not yet progressed to the stage of cursing the world and everybody around her. She knew about certain kinds of people that dwelled in the rundown parts of the city, and she knew what those kinds of people could and would to small little girls like herself, but so far nothing more than a few dog bites and rocks thrown by older boys had hindered her adventures through the city. When Katy was out, Maya was alone (of course she was – they couldn't pay someone to stay with them, and all the other family they had were six feet under). Maya took to wandering through the streets and up the alleyways of what she grew to know as home (a stinking, wretched home with more dark and dirt than sunlight). She often frequented certain streets and tunnels, and these – these were the best parts of her days._ (2)

 _The night was swathed in black, and only the rusty street lights glared down the streets. She hurried home – it had rained the night before, and the sidewalks were slick and muddy. Worms crawled through the sidewalk cracks, and dirty water swirled in the sides of the roads. She was alone under the starry sky, as per usual – until she wasn't._

 _A figure was tailing her, and he got closer and closer until she could see his outline illuminated in the streetlights. From far away he was casual and harmless, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes cast on everything and nowhere – but Maya saw the tense lines of his shoulders, and she knew that pockets could carry all sorts of things. Dangerous things._ (3)

 _She broke into a run, and the footsteps behind her got louder, got faster, and then she was spun around and half-dragged half-guided into a corner of her street that she had never noticed or encountered before. She was disoriented and confused, and before she could recollect her breath, she was thrown against an alley wall. Next to her, a trashcan rattled, and she skidded to the ground. Bits of broken bottles, splintered wood, animal droppings, and other sorts of rubbish littered the ground, and soon the palms of her hands were covered in filth. The lamplight streamed into the narrow passageway, sickly yellow and bright in the black of the walls._

 _It was only one man - all of him was thin and wobbly, with no muscle or posture to his name. His teeth were rotten, eyes greedy, and his face sunken in, as though he'd spent all of his dirty cash and time guzzling beer and sucking on raw meat. He smelled and looked disgusting, with worn, misshapen clothes and a putrid smell omitting from his body. Although he was shaky and unfocused, he towered over her, leering with a jack-o-lantern grin stretched taught across his bony faces._

" _Hey there, girly. What's your name?"_ (4)

" _G-get away from me." Her breath was coming up rapid in her chest, and she could see his body closing in, pressing closer and closer. The wall of shadows tightened, and she could feel herself being back into a corner. One of his hands drifted toward the buckle of his pants, and the other was outstretched toward her._

 _He grabbed at her, and she could feel his grimy hands tugging, yanking, and roaming over her flat chest through her shirt. She recoiled and drew back with a shriek. A dirty hand slammed over her mouth, clamping her jaws shut. She squirmed and thrashed as another pair of hands sized her, yanking her to the ground. He forced her forearm into an iron grip, and something ignited at the feel of his hands on her bare skin. Maya opened her mouth, just a bit, and clamped down on one of the fingers on her face. She bit hard and felt satisfaction bubble in her chest when a yelp of pain followed the release on her face, and she was kicking again, yelling and screaming illegible words._

" _You_ bit _me! You_ little bitch _!" he howled, cradling his hand. He came at her again, fury lighting up his face. Maya couldn't move fast enough, and she was sent crashing to the ground. Hard pavement met her cheek, and she cried out before a weight settled on top of her._

 _Her hand scuttled wildly against the ground, and she groped blindly before her fingers closed against something cold and curved. It was a large shard of a broken beer glass, nearly three inches wide and about six inches in length. It fit in her hand like it was meant to be there all her life. This was a weapon; something she could use. She clutched this shard like it was her last chance at life, brought it over her head, and swung._

 _She brought the glass down again and again, arm swinging in wild, uncoordinated motion. It collided with something, and a grunt of pain met each prick. Again, again – she couldn't stop. She couldn't close her eyes. She could feel liquid on her hand, and every time she brought it back, her skin was stained red._

Where's your smile now? Where's your goddamn smile now?

 _She realized that she was screaming this, ripping the words from her own throat like each bellow would be her last. If she caught her reflection in the dark pupils of the man's eyes, she would have not recognized herself. Her lips were pulled back in a snarl, and her eyes were full of something terrible and dark. She was going to stab, jab and murder and kill him, the son of a bitch. No one and nothing in the world would stop her – when she was done, he would not get up, not once._

 _She would kill him now, before he killed her._

 _With an inhuman roar bursting from her lips, she gripped the shard of glass and thrust her arm forward as far as it would go, until she felt it puncture skin. A muffled grunt, a gag – and the body slumped off of her. The man stared down at his stomach in disbelief, and made a halfhearted motion to grab her. She didn't pull back this time, and leaned into his effort, keeping a hand on her makeshift blade._

 _Blood slid through her fingers, sticky and thick and dark. It trickled down her hand and pooled in her cupped palms, startlingly dark against the stark white of her skin. She twisted it and curved it at an excruciating angle, curving her face into something that must've been a grimace or a mad grin. His yells were gone now, and something dark was bubbling at his lips, almost bursting through the sallow yellow of his skin. His shoulders jerked, his body convulsed, and he choked on nothing._

 _His face went slack, and his eyes were open, staring straight at her. She brought a bare hand to her mouth. Her head screamed and screamed. She scooted backwards and stood, backing away from the body slumped in front of her. She took two numb steps back, stunned. Maya looked down at her hand; stinging pain and her own blood fell onto her jacket. She was gripping the glass so hard that her knuckles flushed white, and the weapon cut her skin like warm butter._

 _She dropped it. It shattered on the ground, and the crashing sound of tinkling glass rattled through the night._

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You see, Maya Hart had never killed anyone (on purpose. She had never murdered on purpose; it was never planned, and never not a spontaneous, heat-of-the-moment choice). However, on more than one occasion, she was sorely tempted. Whenever Farkle assigned her the rich kind of targets – not just wealthy, but _filthy rich._ The kind of loaded folks who rolled around in cash and spent thousands of dollars on expensive cars, who chewed dollar bills in front of homeless people, and took home different models every night. She hated the kind of old, oily gentlemen who stole and raped and hit anyone and everyone they could and got away with it. She loathed, she _despised_ those wealthy ones, the whole lot, because as far as she saw it, they were all the same. They were the same, to the core, lording power over the small and weak.

She liked to steal from the wealthy the most – she didn't handle the business ordeals or aftermaths of her steals (that was Farkle's job, to deal with the nuts and bolts), but there was something riveting about being surrounded by fragile vases and priceless works of art carelessly lying around, begging to be yanked from walls and wrapped in paper. There was something ironic about taking the objects she could never afford in her youth, even in her dreams. (5)

 **...**

"Good job, Mockingbird. You have the package?" Farkle's voice crackled in her ear. The thick brunette strands of her wig fanned out around her face and flickered around her head as she sped along the abandoned road. She tilted her weight, and the vehicle tilted against her, sending her hurtling around a corner with a sharp turn. The engine revved, loud and busy in the deafening silence (a rare occurrence, even in the avoided outskirts of the world's greatest city). (6)

"All in a day's work, loser." she grinned. Maya may have this explainable, sick sense of vengeance against the fortunate-born, but Farkle was a rare exception. Then again, she'd known him all through high-school, so she didn't really have a choice. "So, hear from our friend, Mr. J lately?" she started conversationally, speeding through pavement and swerving to avoid parked cars. Farkle answered, No, no Maya, don't worry, I'll let you know when he does. The buildings that she knew by heart blurred past her, and a smile tugged at her lip. She'd be home before midnight, and Peaches would be waiting for her.

(1)

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 **So this is a bit of Maya's backstory…of I know I'm headed down that annoying road of 'traumatic experiences make people better people'. But hey, this is a Catwoman parallel, and I didn't want Maya going on a murderous rampage instead, sooo…yeah.**

 **I'm pretty sure that "House of the Rising Sun" falls under public domain – I looked it up and everything. But apparently song fics aren't allowed or something, so I wasn't sure. I love this song, and it was screaming in my head as I constructed the chapter, like '** _ **include me, include me, just do it, come on, doooo iiiiittt'**_ **. I should probably see someone about that.**

 _ **House of the Rising Sun**_

 **(1) _There is a house in New Orleans_**  
 _ **They call the Rising Sun**_  
 _ **And it's been the ruin of many a poor boy**_  
 _ **And God, I know I'm one**_

 **(2) _My mother was a tailor_**  
 _ **She sewed my new blue jeans**_  
 _ **(3) My father was a gamblin' man**_  
 _ **Down in New Orleans**_

 **(4) _Now the only thing a gambler needs_**  
 _ **Is a suitcase and trunk**_  
 _ **And the only time he's satisfied**_  
 _ **Is when he's on a drunk**_

 **(5) _Oh mother, tell your children_**  
 _ **Not to do what I have done**_  
 _ **Spend your lives in sin and misery**_  
 _ **In the House of the Rising Sun**_

 **(6) _Well, I got one foot on the platform_**  
 _ **The other foot on the train**_  
 _ **I'm goin' back to New Orleans**_  
 _ **To wear that ball and chain**_

 _ **\- The Animals**_


	8. to come across like I am dying

**_…_**

 _I ponder of something terrifying  
'Cause this time there's no sound to hide behind  
I find over the course of our human existence  
One thing consists of consistence  
And it's that we're all battling fear  
Oh dear, I don't know if we know why we're here  
Oh my,  
Too deep  
Please stop thinking  
I liked it better when my car had sound_

\- _Car Radio by Twenty One Pilots_

 ** _…_**

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 _The boy came to her in peace, and she came to him in pieces. Her eyes dared him to try to put her together, to count out every single scrap and shard that remained of her crumbled body, and glue and press each piece into whatever pretty shapes his mind could make. He didn't move. He only stared._

When he is young and wholesome, his kind and very much alive parents take him to a movie. He doesn't remember the name of the movie, or how full the theater was, or even how the buttery consistency of his salted popcorn tasted on his tongue in the dark. He does remember skipping out of the theater with a bemused mother and father behind him. He remembers the giddy sensation as he twirled and jabbed at thin air, shouting all the while. In his mind, he is a charming swashbuckler teetering on the edge of twenty-three and waving a long golden sword.

They reach the parking lot when he hears the scream – his mother is the one who called out, for an unfamiliar grabbed her neck from behind and wrenched her backward. A masked face peeked out from behind her golden curls. His mother's necklace snapped, sending glittering beads rolling over the bumpy black pavement. He turns around, golden sword and swashbuckling bravado forgotten, and sees the shape of his father lunging towards the unfamiliar figure with something akin to noble rage on his face. His father lands blow after blow on this masked intruder, and the part of him that isn't frozen whoops and thrusts his fist into the air.

Then the gunshot echoes in his ears that _rings_ with a certainty that cracks through his shock. The dark, masked figure turns and bolts away, bag clutched in his hand. In the unfocused lens of his vision, his mother's mouth is open in a silent scream. Maybe there are more people running towards them. Maybe. The dark figures is still running, escaping into the line of trees past his line of vision. Something dark oozes out from below his father, who _isn't moving why isn't he moving get up get up please why aren't you moving and breathing and laughing get up and run, run, RUN NOW PLEASE, PLEASE, DON'T JUST LAY THERE, MOTHER IS CRYING SO JUST GET UP, GET UP._

The sudden rev of an engine breaks him from his stupor. He falls to his knees, crying out into the stark stillness of the night.

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Lucas wakes up eight years old and in an empty, barren bedroom. He vomits, but he doesn't cry.

 **…**

Lucas Friar cannot deny that he has a strange habit of picking up strays off the street. When he was ten years old, he met Isaiah Babineaux, in the form of a skinny, dark-skinned boy crouched behind the shining bulk of one of his parent's cars. There are several glinting tools next to him, contents scattered from a tattered bag next to him. A rusty crowbar rests next to him, apart from the bag. The boy looks at him with widened eyes, like a deer caught in headlights. Lucas looks down at him, equally astonished. Their peculiar way of friendship started with four words.

"What are you doing?"

"Just ignore me, man."

"No way. Are you…stealing tires?"

"Uh…"

 **…**

As he gets older, he gets the hang of going to the same parties and smiling at the same women. He is among beautiful people, so he learns to be beautiful and unflinching. He enrolls in sports. He maintains good grades. He eats dinner every night at one end of a table that stretches far too long away from his mother. He pulls Zay from the streets and the dark corners behind dumpsters and welcomes to him into his home with open arms and pleading eyes. His mother almost takes no notice, and this serves a purpose anyway. The headlines are sympathetic and admiring, and he is praised for yanking a gutter rat from the sewers and into the public eye.

When he turns eighteen he goes to a renowned university, takes special aches and pains to study and study hard, and graduates with good credentials under his belt and a squeaky clean record. When he gets back, the world knows his name again (as a businessman and an heir to Friar Enterprises), so the days of being a scholarly schmuck don't really end, but the days of politics and lying between squeaky-clean teeth just begin.

\- _She has the devil on her lips and something alive in her throat that even you can't reach. -_

What is Lucas Friar, this boy billionaire? Most importantly, _who_ is he, and what has he done? It is the duty of the public eye to search every nook and cranny of his exterior and chuck the dust under rugs and cupboards to make sure that he's done nothing – hiding nothing, harboring no secrets or dirty Jews in his shadow. If they don't find any disagreeable runaways or filthy secrets (because his security is good and his composure is even better) then they'll fabricate something else – either he lets them, and distort his family's good name in the process, or he gives them something to stare at. And so he does. He thrusts Zay into the limelight with him for selfish reasons (not wanting to be alone, not wanting to suffer _alone_ ) and to his relief his friend-or-surrogate-brother does not protest or even find it irritable. He takes to it like a fish takes to water, quickly and gladly. He is his runaway, and he tells the world, _I am proud of this._ And so he is.

Some honest part of him knows that Lucas Friar is a masochist at heart. When he feels pain, instead of ignoring it or stomping it out at the root, he takes it and tucks it up right next to his heart to feel the weight sear scars into his chest. Why else does he indulge himself, and everything…everything else? Simple. Because he knows that there are people out there who have it worse, and he is in power to change some things. Not everything. Just some. Call him an optimist. He liked to call himself hopeful.

(But this deeper, raw part of him really _knows_ that he's selfish to the core of his purple, swollen heart).

 **…**

 _"_ _Tell me, Mr. Friar. What is the key to your success?"_

 _"_ _Oh, that's easy. Hard work and dedication."_

 _"_ _What is it like in a typical day, Luke?"_

 _"_ _It's…ah…eventful."_

 **…**

In truth, it is quite _un_ eventful.

Every morning, he has the same breakfast. One plain omelet, a glass of orange juice, and a slice of buttered toast. Maybe an apple, or a banana if he's feeling hungry enough, but other than that he does not stray from the habit. Everything is always perfectly in its place, and nothing unsettles him about this. There is a routine; a schedule he follows. This is only a part of it. It's not because he's fucked up on the inside, or he sticks to a routine out of fear of deviation. It's not even that he finds breakfast, lunch, or dinner remotely emotionally challenging. It's because he likes omelets. That, and nothing else. He thinks.

Hygiene. Shower the sleep from his eyes.

After this, he gets dressed. Undershirt, collared and buttoned to the second or third button depending on the varying day of the week. A suit jacket – there is an array of steely gray, navy, and black in his closet, all ironed, pressed, and hung like expensive prisoners strung up for execution. It's a disturbing comparison, so he doesn't acknowledge it. Check over business affairs, call his secretary, and head out for work.

Attend meetings.

Smile.

Sit.

Smile.

Listen to them drone on and on. Input once or twice. Check over files, reports, and statistics. Smooth over bumps and cracks.

Lunch.

Then leave. Sleep, and start all over again.

 **…**

He has come to learn that things in life happen for a reason. So does coffee, apparently.

He dates this pretty brunette with doe eyes and the most earnest smile he's seen in years. They meet under the most fitting conditions possible; both participants are sane and collected, and she spills coffee all over him. Of course, he pays for the dry cleaning, and she is adorably flustered over this. He walks her home, as chaste as any gentlemanly code of chivalry requires. He has a run in with a head of blonde hair and familiar pair of blue eyes, and leaves and quickly as he came.

He pauses on the stairwell and huffs out a few breaths. Then he continues on for the rest of his day.

A week later, she responds using the card he gave her. A small part of him frowns in disappointment. Although the offer was technically to the both of them, he'd handed it to _Maya._ No matter. The first time Riley called, he answered immediately.

Two coffee dates later, he takes her to the theater. She is equally impressed by his cars as she is by his tendency to open doors and walk behind her rather than in front. She is entirely flustered by the fact that she's _dating a billionaire_ – but she never asks anything unreasonable of him, and he respects that. She likes puppies, popcorn, and all things sweet. He watches her from behind the tinted windows of the car after he drops her off, spinning around dazedly on the sidewalk with a blissfully goofy expression. Cute.

Throughout the beginnings of this courtship ritual, he does not speak one word to Maya Hart, nor does he see her. When he picks Riley up, her roommate is always long gone at 'work'. When he drops her off, he stops at the door of the apartment and takes no step further. The window to her living space is always dark.

Another week passes, and another date rolls by. Roller skating is tricky, and his partner is as uncoordinated as she is pretty, but it was entertaining. The lights of the road illuminate the street in the pitch black of the nine o'clock night. As Riley skips into the building, he chances a glance up at the window that peers down into the street. The light inside is yellow and thin – the faintest rustling of a curtain ripples from behind the glass. He sees her face again – it's only a pale shape in the dark, but he knows it's her.

He stared up from the sidewalk, hands in the pockets of his coat and eyes fixed on her. Then the curtain snaps shut, the light vanishes, and the moment is broken.

 **…**

He isn't a fool enough to fall in love, of course, but Riley is a welcome addition to his life, mundane as it is. Well, perhaps mundane isn't the right word exactly – the woman in black fixed that for him just right. He still remembers her voice – rich and sultry, with no little amount of smugness. He wants to find this woman, laugh, maybe, and tell her that this just might be the greatest thing that's ever happened to him. Finally, something real. Finally, something ridiculous enough to be spun from a fucking fantasy book. (Of course, she disappears, and little does he know, it will be weeks before she shows her masked face to the public again).

He would think that his empty shell of a mother would have taken notice, but no. As per usual, she is occupied with her travels in Europe and her business dealings that continuously take her farther and farther away from home each time. She doesn't inquire about Riley when he brings her up on a whim, so he does not elaborate. (Somehow, she doesn't react to the cat burglar either, despite the fact that the robbery has reached the status of a national tragedy). Five weeks is a record, he thinks, before the paparazzi finally catches wind of their casual outings. Photos of their entwined hands are splashed on the front pages of every tabloid across the country. Riley is simultaneously modestly elated and embarrassed. Maya Hart is furious, naturally.

 **...**

 _This is the most she's said to him since their first encounter, and honestly, he's torn between bemused at her anger, thrilled that she has acknowledged him, and disappointed that the context of their conversation is nowhere near friendly. He's on one side of the door, to see Riley, or so he says. She is on the other side, hand on the lock and mouth pressed up against the wood, fury resonating even through the solid frame._

 _"_ _Maya, what's wrong? Why can't I come in?"_

 _"_ _Fuck you." she bites back._

 _He knows she cusses like a sailor when she's pissed. He sighs on her behalf, and on behalf of the neighbors. "Why?"_

 _"_ _I can't take the fucking trash out without finding_ strangers _hiding behind the bins with FUCKING_ CAMERAS. _Do you know how creepy that is? Oh, wait, of course you do, Mr. 'I'm-a-loaded-huckleberry-son-of-a-bitch'..." Lucas almost laughs at this. He can imagine her throwing her hand up in the air, and if he's right, she's glaring at him through the door as he speaks._

 _"_ _Maya, do you want me to do something about it?" he sighed, running his hand through his hair. "If you're worried about getting attacked, then we -"_

 _"_ _No – I can take care of myself." she snapped. He shook his head, scolding himself._ Stupid, stupid.

 _"_ _I know that – look, I'm sorry."_

 _"_ _No. You don't get it. Do you know how many phone calls we're getting? You're lucky Riley hasn't picked up one of them yet, or I swear I'd be suing your ass." He paused, breath hitching in surprise._

 _"_ _What phone calls?" Riley hadn't told him about this; she hadn't mentioned any threatening phone calls. "From who? Should I be worried?"_

 _"_ _You bet your ass you should be. From your fangirls. Everywhere. I got seventeen last week, three from the same person. They're blabbering on about how Riley's 'such a bitch, a whore, a slut', and she's not 'good enough for you'. Do you know how obsessive these girls are? How_ in love _they are with you? It's fucking scary, and believe me, Friar, I've_ seen _scary." Her voice is shaking. "This has been going on for what, weeks? How'd they get our number, huh?"_

 _Fuck._

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Every time he knocks on the door, it opens a crack, and then slams in his face with more force than necessary. For such a small frame, she has an astonishing amount of strength. He resigns himself to waiting on the curb – back to square one. He's pretty sure she's flipped him off a few times before hastily shoving her hand down in the corner of his peripheral vision. By the next few days, Riley isn't taking it to well either. He's just glad she hasn't gotten her hands on a tabloid lately; he is pretty sure she'd be reduced to tears. He has to fix this. Fast.

So he invites his pretty girlfriend to a party – the first time he's taken her anywhere other than coffee shops and beaches littered with children and couples in love. For this one, he buys her a dress and shoes, and warns her to stay away from certain individuals and _smile at all times_. This ought to clear up any public opinion of her – he feels guilty enough as it is. Of all people he knows, Riley Matthews deserves slut-shaming the least, perhaps because she can't take the heat on her own. If the public gets their first commissioned eyeful of her on his terms, maybe it'll make things better. Maybe.

Of course, it's a total disaster. It comes in the form of Miss Maya Penelope Hart, all wrapped up in a devilish smile and a red bow.

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 _"_ _We like to think that we love our loves to the bone. Their perks and flaws; that we handpicked these bumps and blemishes ourselves." He didn't look so handsome now – his eyes were crazed, and his smile stretched into creases across his face. Mr. J's breath was ragged, and his voice rasped through his throat like sandpaper being dragged across a chalkboard. Lucas tightened his hold on his collar, noting the smattering of drool that draped over his teeth and the fine trail of blood smeared on his lips._

 _"_ _Where is she?" He shook him by the lapels of his coat, hands clenched in sweaty fabric and coated in grime. "Give it up, you sick son of a -"_

 _The other man continued, seemingly oblivious to his outburst. His legs were splayed out beneath him at an awkward angle, and his left arm was bent completely backwards. Through a tear in the fabric at the elbow, white bone peeked out, barely identifiable from underneath flesh stretched pink and thin._

 _"_ _Little people think they're so big, you know. They're obnoxious shits about things like love – once they find other little people who fit their special rules and morals, they convince themselves that destiny is at play. They tell themselves that finding a match, the one soul who knows them better than anyone, is the key to fixing their problems."_

 _"_ _Tell me where she is, you -"_

 _"_ _Did you really think that little Mrs. Maya Heart was the first one?" Lucas falls silent at this. He continued, a smile stretching on his lips. His crazed eyes were glazed over in a deceitfully dreamy expression. "I love the blondes, especially. And the eyes – blue or green, doesn't matter. You know, you wouldn't do half bad," he mused, "if not for the additional nether regions – but we could make it work."_

 _Lucas's lip curls in involuntary disgust._

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 _And now I just sit in silence._

* * *

 **So, the death of Mr. Friar was in no way as climatic as the iconic death scene of Mr. and Mrs. Wayne, I know. It kinda sucked. Honestly, right now I'm trying to figure out how exactly to portray Lucas. I don't know how to find that balance of kind and charismatic, yet angry and potentially dark (but not corrupted). So this right here is really just me trying to skip through a timeline and figure out who Lucas really is. Oh, dear. That's what I get when I try to mix Lucas Friar and Batman. Serves me right. His 'backstory' plot kind of gleans over a few things and isn't a specific as Maya's is, I think. It's very fast paced, actually. And there are a bunch of holes in his perspective. I think we can all agree that my flickering commitment and wavering writing capability is to blame.**

 **He's a good person, but kind of an unintentional busy asshole, so things don't really pass along for him the same, I guess? I'm probably gonna rework this at some point, so, uh. Yeah.**

 ** _Car Radio_** **is kind of part of my imaginary soundtrack for him – while Maya's theme (previous chapter) is very dramatic and climatic (think primarily female power ballads, etc.), his is more of a melancholy track about idle routine, and the loss of that repetitiveness being taken from him. Plus I love TOP, so…yeah.**

 **I live off of reviews, and constructive criticism sorely needed, so feel free to add your thoughts and opinions?**


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